House of Scarlett

by Meghan March

  “I think it’s sweet.”

  Scarlett rolls her gorgeous gray eyes and shakes her head.

  “Yeah, it is. Because it makes it easier to know what you’re thinking. If it were up to you, you’d keep everyone in the dark about how you feel, but I like having a cheat sheet. You’re already intimidating enough as it is. A guy needs a few advantages here and there to keep it fair.”

  Her blond eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “I’m the intimidating one? Compared to you? Not a chance.”

  Twenty-Two

  Scarlett

  As soon as I turn the question around on him, Gabriel’s teasing laughter fades away and he stares at me with all seriousness.

  “Absolutely. Guys like me are a dime a dozen. Women like you are one of a kind, Scarlett.”

  “How about we agree to disagree?” I offer, trying to restore the levity.

  Like he knows exactly what I’m trying to accomplish, he nods. “Fair enough. But I’m still surprised you kept the note.”

  It takes a lot of self-control not to reach over and grab the precious paper and hold it to my chest, and even more self-control to pretend I’ve never actually done that before.

  But I have.

  I know it’s just graphite on recycled cardstock, but that note felt like so much more. In this digital, fast-faster, hurry-hurry-get-it-done world, no one takes the time to handwrite a note anymore. I know there’s plenty of reasons why he would, but I don’t care. I’m holding on to the evidence that he was thinking about me, and I’m glad it’s more tangible than a text message on the screen of my phone. If I printed those out and hugged them to my chest, then I’d have a problem.

  We’re not there yet, though. Thankfully.

  “Call me sentimental. I liked it. It felt special.”

  He dips his chin, and I realize it’s his way of conceding ever so slightly.

  “Then you’ll get more notes. Give it time, ladybug.”

  I don’t know if it’s the beginnings of the lopsided grin on his face or if it’s the husky tone of his voice, but I melt. In that moment, there’s no way to pry me off the pillows or to erase the goofy grin on my face. I’m done for. Out of commission. A casualty of Gabriel Legend and his promised incoming notes.

  I don’t know the last time I was so freaking excited by the prospect of something so seemingly insignificant, but Gabriel has changed everything.

  Even the simple things. Or maybe not simple.

  Rare. Like him.

  “You want to rest for a while? Or take a shower? I don’t know about you, but hospitals make me feel the need to rinse off as soon as I get out of there.”

  In my nest of blankets, I get what he’s saying completely, but I’m also exhausted.

  “Give me an hour or two? Then I’ll shower and eat and be ready to crash for the night. I just need . . .” I pause, but he gets where I’m coming from before I can continue.

  “You’re tired. I won’t push. Get some rest, ladybug. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

  He squeezes my hand, runs it down my covered legs, and squeezes my feet. Then he rises from the bed.

  Again, it shouldn’t be a sexy gesture, but everything about Gabriel makes me want to curl into him, soak up his heat, and never emerge.

  Soon, I promise myself. Soon.

  Two hours later, Gabriel stands in the doorway to the bathroom as steam curls out of the walk-in shower.

  “You sure you have everything you need?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll call if you need help getting out? No trying to do it yourself if it’s too slippery.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay. Then I guess you’re good. Yell if you need me. I’ll be right in.”

  A smile lifts the edges of my lips, and I don’t care if he sees it. “I swear I’ll be fine. I’ll call out if I need help.”

  Even though he looks like he desperately wants to stay because he’s terrified of something happening to me, Gabriel backs away from the door frame and disappears into the bedroom. As soon as he’s gone, I count to thirty and make sure he’s not going to reappear. When he doesn’t, I acknowledge the fact that I wanted him to want to stay.

  As soon as I’m naked, I slip into the shower and the hot steam envelops me. I let out a moan of appreciation, and before I can even open my eyes again, I know I’m not alone.

  “You okay?”

  I flick a glance toward the doorway and can’t help but quietly giggle. He’s standing there, his eyes averted, even though he desperately wants to check on me to make sure I’m all right.

  “I’m fine. The water feels amazing, though. Sorry for the false alarm.”

  His gaze cuts to my face, never dropping south of my chin. “Glad to hear it. Just be safe, damn it.”

  “I’m fine, but you’re welcome to stay if you’re worried about me.” It’s definitely Bad Scarlett who pushes those words out of my mouth, but it doesn’t work.

  Gabriel shakes his head. “I’ll be right out here. Don’t forget your robe is on the chair.”

  He disappears again, and my smile may as well become a permanent part of my face, because I can’t wipe it off.

  Gabriel is an old mother hen when it comes to worrying about people. It’s freaking adorable, and I love it.

  Gah. This is dangerous.

  Mostly because I’m not feeling as much like an invalid as I should, and I want to torture him a little. Call it my last bit of revenge for throwing me out of his office. Then again, no matter what you call it, it’s going to be fun.

  Twenty-Three

  Legend

  “I’m decent, but I could use some help.”

  As soon as her voice comes from the bathroom, I shoot out of the chair in her bedroom and my phone tumbles to the hardwood floor, bouncing on one corner and landing on the rug. Nice.

  But I don’t care about the phone. I leave it where it is and rush to the bathroom where I learn one thing—my definition of decent and Scarlett Priest’s definition of decent are very, very different.

  I stop short in the doorway and look to the side, but there’s a fucking mirror, so I can still see her.

  A very wet, naked her.

  “I thought you said you were decent? You need your robe? I’ll grab it.”

  Before I can figure out how I’m going to close my eyes and walk toward her without looking like an idiot, Scarlett laughs. Fuck me, I’d go ten rounds in the cage just to hear that sound again.

  “There’s a washcloth covering everything that matters. I’m sorry my nakedness is so terrifying.” The amusement in her voice is what seals it.

  I drop the polite pretense and stare right at her. “You think this is terrifying? Fuck no, this is torture.”

  Her smile dims a few watts, and I want to learn how to turn it up again.

  “Staring at my almost naked body is torture?”

  I take a step toward the glass shower enclosure, deliberately letting my gaze trail down her face, to her chin, and then farther south to the tiny white scrap of terrycloth that lies over both her perfectly rounded tits. She’s shielding her lower half with her hand, and I catch sight of her Steri-Strip-covered incisions.

  So back to the top half I go. Her breasts are more than a handful each, but not much more, which is fine by me. My dick twitches hard against the zipper of my jeans.

  “Knowing you’re here and naked, and I can’t fucking touch you until you’re all healed up, is what’s fucking torture.”

  That flush of hers starts somewhere under that washcloth, and with eagle-eyed precision, I watch it spread out to her collarbone, up her neck, and to her cheeks.

  “Fuck me, ladybug, but you’re goddamned gorgeous.”

  The grin disappears from her face, only to be replaced by an expression I can’t read. Slowly, her fingers flex, and it takes me a few seconds to realize what she’s doing—stepping out of the shower enclosure and onto the bathroom floor, without a grip on anything to keep her upright in case sh
e falls.

  “Wait, hold on—”

  Her slip comes a moment later, but I’m already across the room, my arms out, ready to catch her before she can fall onto the perfectly polished marble floor.

  Water soaks my clothes, but I don’t care, because I’ve got an armful of wet, naked, beautiful woman.

  Her lungs heave with the scare as I pin her body to mine, trying to keep my mind off all the places where I’m touching her naked skin.

  “You gotta be more careful, ladybug.” I speak my gruff words directly into her ear, and a shiver ripples through her.

  She tilts her head until that gray gaze of hers collides with mine. “Are you sure? Because I think this worked out just fine.”

  I can’t help it. I close the distance between our mouths and steal a kiss. On her indrawn breath, she gasps.

  “Be careful what you start, Scarlett, because I’m always game to finish it. I’ll take a rain check on this one, though. And as soon as you’re healed . . . you just let me know. I’ll cash that fucker in faster than you can blush head to toe.”

  Her tongue darts out and swipes across her lower lip, which leads me right back in to steal another taste.

  “But, goddamn, you’re sweet.”

  “Only for you.”

  Her whispered words slay me, but I have to pump the brakes, or we’re both going to be too far into something we can’t even think about right now.

  Yeah, tell that to my dick. It’s way too on board already.

  I carry her to the clear acrylic chair that has her bathrobe draped open over the back of it, and wrap the giant terrycloth sides around her, covering her up. Thankfully, it only takes her a moment before she shoves her hands through the armholes and has it tied up.

  “Better?” she asks with that sassy smirk.

  “Yeah. Better. Now you’re going back to bed. Time to pick up some takeout so you can get some rest.”

  I reach down to lift her into my arms again, and this time, she doesn’t protest or squeak. She throws her arms around my neck without hesitation. Like they belong there.

  Because they fucking do.

  I was so stupid. What the fuck was I thinking, pushing away a gift like this? Old habits die hard, though, and when you’re not used to having anything beautiful in your life, you start to think you don’t deserve it. That it’s not for you.

  And I don’t deserve her. I think we’re all clear on that.

  But there have to be some other forces at play here, because why else would I get a second chance?

  Doesn’t matter now, because I’m taking it.

  Scarlett’s dinner is cleared away, and she’s dozing in front of Chip and Joanna Gaines. I even set a sleep timer on the remote so the TV will shut off in thirty minutes.

  With one last look at Scarlett’s beautiful—and worn-out—face, I slip out of her room and make my way to the kitchen where my duffel bag still waits on the bottom of the rolling cart Liz brought up.

  I grab it and then force myself to find the guest room and adjoining bath to take a shower. It’s been a long fucking day, and yet all I want to do is park myself outside Scarlett’s door so I’m close to her if she needs anything. But that’s not smart either, because the memory of the pale pink of Scarlett’s nipples, barely covered by the edge of that damn washcloth, comes rushing back into my brain and sends all the blood in my head to my dick.

  I pretended I didn’t see them when I was flipping the edges of her robe closed, but I saw them. Jesus Christ, did I see them. The visual is burned into my brain, and I may never get it out.

  Fuck. I need to take the edge off.

  Closing the door carefully behind me, and leaving it open a crack so I can hear if Scarlett yells, I drop my duffel on the counter and strip in the all-white tile bathroom before reaching into the stall to flip on the hot water.

  I should be jumping in a cold shower to knock the punch out of my hard-on, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not when letting the thing stay untended isn’t going to do anyone any good. If nothing else, it’s going to cause more trouble than it’s worth. So I don’t think twice about sliding the glass door shut and soaking up the heat.

  And if I groan when I wrap my hand around my dick, I’ll just have to pray it’s not too fucking loud.

  Twenty-Four

  Scarlett

  Chip Gaines’s laugh jolts me awake, and I look around the room, trying to figure out where the hell I am. I blink twice at the TV, and it takes that long for my brain to start working again. I’m at home. In my bed. Watching HGTV.

  The scent of steamed rice and pot stickers hanging in the room successfully jogs my memory.

  Gabriel is here. You had the blandest stuff on your favorite Chinese takeout menu for dinner because it seemed like the best choice.

  Which means . . . Gabriel is still here somewhere?

  “Gabriel?” I say his name quietly, expecting him to pop into my room immediately, but he doesn’t.

  Did he leave? Maybe he was only staying until I fell asleep? No. No, he wouldn’t do that. He said he’d be here. He brought a bag.

  With something akin to panic racing through my veins, I toss off the blankets and crawl out of bed. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I know I should have stayed where I was, but I have to know. Did he leave?

  Moving slowly, I pad out into the kitchen and living room, but there’s no sign of him. The Chinese food is gone too. There’s not even a crumpled takeout bag on the counter to signal that it was here at all.

  I take two more steps toward the sink, and that’s when I hear water running in the guest bathroom.

  See? He’s here. He’s not like your dad. He won’t leave you alone.

  I pretend I don’t know where that thought came from, but this whole emergency surgery situation is really stirring up the abandonment issues I worked through for years with my non-sex-therapy therapist. Not to be confused with the sex therapist who my ex sent me to because he said there was something wrong with me.

  That still stings, but the flare of heat that ignites low in my belly as I peek through the crack Gabriel left in the bathroom doorway tells me that there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with me except I was with the wrong person. Because ho-ly hell.

  I jerk my head back, not believing I just saw what I just saw.

  No, Scarlett. Don’t look again. It’s rude. Horrible. Awful. You’d be mortified if he did it to you.

  And yet that doesn’t stop me from peering through the thin gap that may as well have been left there by God himself, because I’m witnessing a freaking miracle.

  Thank you, Lord, for pushing me to choose the non-frosted glass shower doors.

  Because I have a crystal-clear view of Gabriel braced with his left hand on the white subway tile of the shower, and the other . . . sweet Jesus. The other hand is stroking his long, hard cock over and over as his hips and ass move with the rhythm.

  It’s the most carnal sight I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

  My nipples peak against my robe, and molten heat burns through me. If I were a different kind of woman, who hadn’t just been in surgery barely over twenty-four hours ago, I would have dropped my robe where I stood and slipped into the shower behind him.

  I can picture it so vividly as imaginary me presses her breasts to his back and reaches around to slide my hand under his, so he can use my palm instead.

  Oh God. Another surge of heat hits me like someone opened a blast furnace when his head dips even lower and his movements turn rougher.

  My mouth waters at the way he tugs at his cock, and I envision myself sliding around his body and dropping to my knees in front of him to take it down my throat. I’ve never won any major accolades for giving blow jobs, and my interest in deep-throating has always been nil, but right now, I’ve got the urge to sharpen those skills.

  My knees go weak, and I grab the doorjamb to stop myself from falling. It must have been the movement, or maybe my tiny squeak, but something catches Gabriel’s attention, and his h
ead turns in my direction. His eyes go wide and he jerks back.

  “No. God. Don’t stop.” It’s not until he turns to face me completely, his hand still stroking his cock, that I realize I spoke those words out loud, and he heard them.

  Oh. My. God.

  Mortification rolls over me, but only for a moment. Arousal drowns it out as Gabriel keeps going, his fist gripping harder and faster. His blue eyes drill into mine.

  It was dark the night we were in his office, and I didn’t get to see every detail and nuance of his face when he came, but I can see them now. The steam and water can’t hide the moment of surprise when he realizes he’s going to come. Right then. Right there. With an audience.

  His face contorts and his mouth opens, and it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. Splatters of white hit the glass door of the shower, and I clench the door frame to keep myself upright.

  His eyes close, and his forehead presses against the glass as one word is torn from his throat.

  My name.

  Twenty-Five

  Legend

  “Scarlett.” It was supposed to come out as a whisper, but my groan sounds like a roar in the small bathroom. My lungs are burning, my balls have finally stopped flexing, and my dick is slightly less hard than granite in my hand.

  I can’t believe I just fucking did that.

  She stood frozen at the door—watching. As soon as I saw her, I should have stopped. Turned around. Done anything except what I did.

  It hasn’t even been a day since she had surgery, and here I am, yanking it like a thirteen-year-old in her shower because it was the only thing I could think of to take the edge off.

  But, instead, it just made it worse. Because now I want to see her face when she’s coming at the same time, and I can’t have that yet. She needs to heal, and I need to regain her trust after what I did.